


Fixations

by Egon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Eating out, Fontcest, Incest, M/M, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, PapySans, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egon/pseuds/Egon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans intends to help his inexperienced younger brother enjoy himself with his first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixations

**Author's Note:**

> Written at the crest of summer when good monsters were celebrating with fireworks.

Papyrus’s pussy is like nothing else he’s ever seen. And that’s not to imply immense experience or its antithesis. His brother’s approach to pleasure is generally so distant and analytical that his body parts genuinely look generic. His brother is like modern art. It is a slice of orange without pulp or wrinkle. The lips are smooth, uniform, puffy. There is a button of a clit like an afterthought, formed by someone with no notion of what it might be used for. But Papyrus doesn’t afford himself ‘decoration’, only utility. Is it strange to think that he actually had preconceptions of what his brother’s pussy might look like? That he’d wondered if if would be full and vivacious with a long, engorged clit, all the better to feel him by, or if it would be a narrow channel with thin lips, requiring long foreplay and the coaxing of fingers and an almost painful breach to welcome him into the world of sexual intimacy, kind of a product of Alphys’ hentai and a virgin-taking kink.

The texture and gleam of it is almost like something out of those ‘canned goodies’ you might find in Fizzy’s shop. Perhaps Papyrus wasn’t aware that the human-based shape he’d chosen for himself had limitations, that the outer labial lips were not supposed to be as lubricated as the interior. And its neutral position resembles the pocket pussies too, caught yawning open just a little, proving a depth to the interior. He doubts Papyrus has ever seen one of those things, much less used one. And as an extension of that doubt, he wonders if Papyrus is as utilitarian on the inside, smooth and flat and sterile, unaware that those things have a multitude of textures to engage the interest.

Papyrus’s pussy has the gentle density of silicon and the bounce of gelatin, with a slippery, plasticky surface that makes him think, again, of the sexless gendered dolls, bleached blonde hair, feet permanently stuck in a flex pose for modeling high heeled shoes that never seemed to be found with the dolls, perky cone-shaped mounds on their chests barely contained by thin cotton slips of doll clothing. Papyrus used to play with those human-shaped dolls. He wonders if it was a bad influence.

His brother sits up, weight resting on his elbows and forearms, scowling down at him with the kind of electric orange complexion ordinarily only found replicated on construction clothing. “Are you going to look at it?” He berates. “Or are you going to do something with it???” And no, he is informed. Prodding the lips of it does not count, no matter how much it has made him leak clear pleasure-fluid.

He wants to make a joke, to reassure them both, but he is scared that Papyrus will take it the wrong way, become defensive, close the channel to this glorious look into his brother’s orderly mind and how it conflicts with selfish pleasure-seeking. He rubs his hands up and down those long beautiful thighbones instead. It calms him. It calms both of them. 

Papyrus is staunchly utilitarian. He’d expect sexual organ-to-sexual organ. Not sheerly for procreative purposes. He’s given up the pretenses of ignoring pleasure or sex for sex’s sake, but when it comes to making love, the emphasis has always been on mutual pleasure from mutual act, something that gives them dignity and equality. A gloved hand roughly palming over paired dicks pressed close together. Anxious frotting in their work clothes, the crisp snow crunching, the stern scent of pine needles, vivid awareness of the potential to get caught and all that would entail. As an older brother, it’s almost his duty to open him to the wider world of indulgence.

He dips his mouth down to that syrupy cunny and licks a long streak from base up to clit. Texture analysis has remained consistent; the slightest hint of pressure and Papyrus opens to him like a folding flower. Papyrus shifts his posture to bent knees, but despite their tremor, he admirably resists the urge to clamp his thighs against Sans’s head, for which he is grateful. One gloved hand is stuffed between his teeth. At least the forefinger knuckle has been locked. It’s a gesture of trying to maintain his composure and his silence, but neither of those traits are any concern. When it comes to self-gratification, Papyrus denies himself so much. He never knew the frequency or timing of his brother’s masturbation until they were together, until his brother told him that he rarely slept and always heard his nightmares as wet dreams, and joined in to pass the time, to indulge as cohort instead of voyeur. Papyrus had been pressing along into that exciting and strange world since he was twelve, he’d been informed so matter-of-factly. He didn’t need to be taught, Papyrus told him. He already knew for himself.

His brother’s voice is so soft right now. The room is so quiet that the low sounds of his tongue laving against wet flesh sounds loud and whorish, reverberating between them, caught in the hollow of his skull and the corners of the room. His exhales sound like laughs, short bursts of hot air against the glistening cunny that seems to slick more in response. Papyrus pants and whines behind his self-imposed gag order. Were he more vocal, Sans could be confident that his brother was enjoying this and issuing forth his demand for pleasure to the best of his abilities. These noises sound hesitant and inexperienced, a virgin uncertain of his bodily responses and his limits, struggling not to lose himself too quickly or too shamefully. They gratify him, but they make him question how much of this is informed and consensual, even with the reassurance that his brother is old-hat to these pleasures. If Papyrus is uncomfortable with even indulging in pleasure, or if this is the last of his innocence on display for him in the softest and gentlest of tones. He wonders if he really would’ve been able to hear this in the night, had he been listening hard enough for it.

Papyrus’s pussy has an illogically fruity flavour, citric, but tempered from its sourness by something, like an orange creamsicle. It is such a delicate taste, such a far cry from the overbearing stinging sweetness of ketchup. Each lapping motion urges on more of his personal lubrication to seep through and drench his tongue. Sans works his fingers up against his pussy lips, massaging him gently, and his fluids start to take the same orange hue as the sexual organ. He scrapes his teeth against the hole, gently edging against Papyrus’s clitoris with the very tips of his teeth until the panting becomes hoarse and the whines become desperate. His brother shudders against him. The wave follows from a shake of shoulder blades, spine, hips, thighs, and he has to watch to be sure this bristling is out of pleasure and not shame, or pain, or the silent, panicked revocation of consent. But no, from his vantage point, he can see the way Papyrus’s cunny ripples hard, unimpeded by anything, a perfectly symmetrical clamping from both sides onto nothingness.

He gives it a finger to suckle on, and it latches onto him hard, milking the little digit for something it couldn’t give him. It’s difficult to gauge just how ‘interesting’ he is on the inside, but Papyrus is making more desperate noises, tossing his head back, and that provides enough satisfaction on its own. “Th—that’s— more like it!!!” Papyrus goads, but he wasn’t going to get him off so easily. Reluctantly, he removes the finger and works both hands against his labia, kneading and squeezing at them while the juices flow freely. His brother’s shudder is near-constant. That glove will take a few washes to get as red as it was before, if it survives this. 

With each hand pinching down on a lower lip apiece and pulling him open, he thrums his thumbs against the unimpeded clit, one rubbing after the other in a maddening relay. He could hear Papyrus open his mouth in an impulsive gasp, the beginning of a profane exclamation cut off by hand resuming its duty. “feels good?” He asks instead. The sound he gets goes right to his cock. Fuck, if Papyrus could ever let loose, he’d never get used to it.

From the thickening of the eraser-tip-sized nub, he can tell Papyrus is truly aroused, close. It’s pointed skyward more, straining with a swell of magic. It hasn’t grown, though he’s heard stories about some more extreme examples of genitalia in use; rather, surrounding tissue has retracted away sufficiently to give it more definition. Then again, with the art of minimalism clearly applied to sexuality here, ‘definition’ might be stretching it. He holds Papyrus open as he dives back in to the fray, this time exploring the untamed cavern with his adventurous tongue-tip. Papyrus can’t control his response. Legs clamp around his head on diagonal with his cheekbones, holding him in place. Even behind cloth and fingerbones, he can hear a poorly-concealed screech, a good five-second note that’s pure throat-tone. He presses his forehead down to get enough leverage to breathe. “gotta let go, papy…” He can hear his brother fighting himself, straining against the pleasure that fogs his brain and freezes self-control. He can feel the electric tension as will fights want and slowly inches those legs away. He doubts he could do it so easily.

Papyrus’s pussy flutters around his tongue. The way it squeezes suggests rings of musculature, providing pressure on different segments at different intervals, and for a completely generic presentation, thus far he’s counted six different squeezing patterns at tongue-tip alone: vertical, horizontal, top diagonals, bottom diagonals, cross diagonals, and a ‘y’-shaped pattern. It doesn’t seem like his brother has spared some kind of incremental control when he has lost all semblance of control everywhere else, which means his body is doing all of this on its own, and that’s intriguing enough to press onward. He burrows his tongue inside his brother’s hole, tongue searching out anything to stroke against, show his love. Maybe it was a trap. As soon as he sinks down as far as his jaw will allow, Papyrus’s body starts up the assault on the penetrating body, presumably substituting its routines for a dick. Even this involuntary motion has his brother keening, and Sans reluctantly has to remove his hands to push those hips down and keep them from battering into his nose a third time. He can’t help but laugh.

At its deepest, Papyrus’s love canal clutches against his tongue so tightly he loses feeling in it. It makes it difficult to curl the tip up against him, but he’s not looking to make this about a replacement dick. Just gauging what he has to work with. As he draws back, his mouth is already filled with his brother’s juices, made just for him. Swallowing it down is such a small act, so insignificant, but he hears how loudly his brother’s breath hitches on noticing that. Damn, that’s cute~ He writhes his tongue against those inner walls for lack of a better target, teeth kneading in against the external walls as he works hard to eat his brother out. His nasal ridge lies just at that love-button, and the deeper strokes let him scrape against him in ways that make his brother howl behind his hand.

Papyrus’s pussy is flaring with heat. Its owner is faring little better. Tears appear to be just prickling at his eye-sockets. Golden-tinted saliva has soaked through the glove, and there’s a little puddle of run-off at his chest, a long streak of tawny magic down his ulna. The whole bed is shaking in his effort to contain himself, and Sans just wants to come up for air and tell him to let loose, but instructing him would defeat the purpose of this exercise, would key him in to the objective of deconstruction, and then something about prudery and propriety would work to clam him up even tighter than before. His major joints, portions of his body with higher concentrations of magic, are now all solidly glowing the same orange hue. He’s beautiful. He’s priceless. He’s a treasure.

He reaches for the hand that’s clenched tightly into the sheets and gently coaxes the glove off, fingertips first. Static energy sparks from fingertips, from the raw hole piercing through his palm, and just petting bare fingertip-to-fingertip feels about as lewd as getting his dick wet. The other hand flies to the sheets and grips them just as tightly. Papyrus is no longer trying to control this, at least, not from the position of advantage. Body-language says he’s just trying to hold on, just trying to keep a grip on himself and reality. Heh. The other hand gets the clue faster than the first, struggles to help him get the glove off, struggles to entwine fingers with him and complete the circuit, and with this last bit of barrier removed between them, he buries mouth and nose back into his brother’s cunny.

Papyrus wraps his legs around him again, ankles digging into his back and shoulders while desperately trying not to strangle him or suffocate him to death between those gorgeous thighs. What a way to go, though. He grunts against him and searches for a sweet spot that Papyrus probably never put into the design, prickling awareness of the kind of dexterity his brother has as he feels curling toes actually ruck up his shirt to grip at it. He can feel Papyrus nearing the end, worth all the work it’s taken, can hear him hoarsely vocalizing those same self-conscious notes without anything between them, can hear each struggle for breath and what it means. 

“Sans.” Papyrus rasps, and it sounds like a warning, a very pointed, single-syllable expulsion with all the urgency of something considerably more mortal. He feels a grin spread out onto his face, relief manifesting. Each slurp and suckle is now made with purpose, each potentially the last needed to carry him through into bliss. He draws his hand away to rub and pinch at his brother’s pretty little clit again, and that’s all Papyrus needs. “Ouuuuhh!” He howls out a high and broken whine, tapering off only to draw more breath. Thighs crash back into his cheeks so hard all Sans can hear is a ringing noise, all he can taste is a forceful ejaculate of that orange creamsicle flavour now prominent, now more magically derived. His brother’s legs are a strong clamp keeping him in place as he clutches down hard on his tongue and ruts his face shamelessly, mouth a litany of his name over and over and over again. It’s so good.

His brother’s face is vacant and blissed out. Drool seeps out onto the pillow, completely uncaring of the mess in a way that’s out of character for him. The stresses and responsibilities that have ringed his eyes with grey aren’t present at the moment. There is only the now, only the waves of pleasure lapping his body away into a sea of self-indulgence, and reality holds no bounds here. He’s exhausted, and his ears are still ringing, but Papyrus’s legs are still open as he left them, his modesty shattered and self-awareness vanished. “you’re beautiful,” he says, and his brother laughs, never taking these moments of candidness as anything but another joke or tease from one sibling to another.

His knees ache like a motherfucker, and he has to use upper-body strength to crawl into bed and press up alongside him, drinking in the whole figure, the whole mess of him, everything as one. Papyrus enjoys his aftermath for as long as he needs, because when it’s over, he pretends it never happened. And he wishes it wasn’t like that, but it just makes pulling him apart more motivated, more of a challenge, more satisfying when he gets to see this part of him again. His brother draws him up close to his chest and holds him. “i love you,” he tells his brother, and Papyrus believes it.


End file.
